


A House That Lacks

by gritkitty



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritkitty/pseuds/gritkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and his team look for shelter when a mission goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House That Lacks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Alejandra

 

 

The house is small and old, with a rough floor and thick mud walls covered in plaster. It is shelter from the guns outside, and after Nikita and Kamal dig a hole in the wall, defensible. It is also less than fifty yards from a remote Section cache-post, a very modest base of operations. Andrew, the senior operative in charge of the post and its team of three men, stands waiting with his Glock ready to fire as soon as the others move aside. Michael says, "This house won't last. Can you get us to Punjab tonight?"

"I don't have much, but I do have a truck. And Punjab is one of my favorite places."

Holding a gagged, hooded man, Michael watches Andrew move up to the loophole and methodically aim and shoot, aim and shoot out the hole in the wall. Nikita is mildly charmed and has been since Andrew and his men arrived unexpectedly, making pithy remarks and fighting along the primary team, steady and handy as an extra right arm. That Andrew is here in northern India is no surprise; he has worked India and Pakistan for almost ten years, most of those years while on Section One's payroll. And he's a charming man. Glib, haphazardly attractive despite a misshapen nose. His sudden presence in the hills outside Srinagar is suspicious, though. Michael wonders if Andrew took it upon himself to disregard Michael's orders, or if he was called in because of an override on the profile. Either way Michael is in no position to refuse the help.

Andrew draws away to crouch on the floor and reload; his man Kamal steps up and quickly empties his clip; when he rolls away Nikita takes his place so quickly the steady bark of gunfire rests only a beat, and then resumes, the larger caliber making a bigger sound. Andrew says, "Impressive cock-up, Michael. Good thing we stepped up to save your bacon."

The man in Michael's arms struggles; Michael slowly clenches his forearm tighter on the side of his neck. Firing steadily, Nikita says, "How could we know they'd show up?" The man bucks, makes noise despite the gag, and his heels scrabble against the floor before he twitches and slowly relaxes, unconscious.

"No," Michael says, "Andrew's right. This should have been anticipated." He gagged and blindfolded the man before the attack and relied on a calculated administration of pain and his own strength to keep the prisoner subdued while Andrew and his men protected the team's retreat through the dark alleys of Srinagar. Now he secures the man, binding his arms and legs tight.

"Bad profile? Administration cock-up, then. Oily bastards."

"It's my profile."

"I don't envy you the debriefing." Nikita's gun clicks on an empty chamber. She ducks down, and Andrew stands and fires steadily, still speaking. "But come to think of it, you've skimped on backup before and come home with nothing but regrets, haven't you."

Andrew refers to a mission they ran together years ago in Pakistan, but Michael thinks of his wife, dead because of the very same reason. He loved Simone; he mourned her; but he knows this is no time to linger on past pain. Instead he draws and checks his own gun. Nikita, however, lacks such emotional discipline, and she glares at Andrew. "Who the hell are you to say anything about Michael's profiles?"

"Cheeky. One of Jurgen's?" He fires his last shot, moves aside, and Michael takes a turn.

 _Mine_ he almost says, but that sentiment comes from an honest animal possessiveness he's almost used to denying. The idea of Nikita as Section's property offends him even though he knows such thoughts are dangerous. "The profile isn't bad."

"And everyone in jail is framed." Michael likes him, but conversations with Andrew can draw blood. Tonight his shots hit uncannily precise.

"It's a good profile." Through the loophole Michael sees flashes and dutifully fires at them. He has the advantage of the house's stout walls, but outside he sees little more than ragged shadows, the flash of gunfire; and he knows his efforts will have little effect. He tries, though, because he knows the steady fire will give Mowen, Boles, and Andrew's men opportunity to flank the gunmen, creep close and kill them at close quarters. "Missions are more than profiles."

Andrew says, "Are you telling me things don't always go according to our plans? God forbid." Kamal laughs. Michael spares a glance; Nikita is smiling too.

A bullet shoves into his upper arm and he corrects his stance before he finishes his clip. Nikita pulls at his sleeve, murmuring his name, asking if he is okay. "Keep firing," he orders. "I'm fine."

Andrew looks at him then, assessing and questioning all at once. Michael has seen it many times, but not often directed at him. _Are you hurt? Are you dying? Can you fight? Can I depend on you?_ Michael ignores him and the wound; he can move, and there is little blood, but Andrew stops him, ties a strip of cloth around his arm. "So forbearing. Good lord. One would almost think you're English, except you never smile."

The opposing gunfire intensifies, but the rattle of bullets on the thick walls of the house stops. Michael hears a cry; it might be mistaken for a bird-call, but it's a thin scream. Nikita strains to see through the gloom. "I can't see anything, but they're not firing at us anymore."

Dust and plaster puff from the wall inches from Nikita's face. Kamal cries out and falls, and Andrew kneels at his side. Nikita resumes firing, filling the night with bullets fast as she can reload. On the floor behind her Kamal curls on the ground, resisting Andrew's efforts to pull his arms away from his gut. Kamal pleads quietly in Punjabi and Andrew replies. Michael doesn't know what he says, but the tone is reassuring.

"How is he?" Michael asks.

"He needs help. We've a safe-house near the center of the city; from there we can get him a doctor."

"The others must have flanked them. Let's go," says Michael.

Andrew's face darkens. "Are you suggesting we withdraw? Abandon Kamal?"

"It's not a suggestion."

Nikita turns from the hole and stares at him.

"We have to get this man to Section, alive. Now. I don't have to explain to you why." Michael grabs the prisoner intending to hoist him up but pain rips his arm, stabs into his shoulder and echoes down to his fingers. Nikita was at the loophole; now she is at his side, the moments between evidently brief but blind. Her touch soothes, and sometimes he hates her for making him feel anything. He could step away from her, but he doesn't.

"Worse than you thought it was, eh?"

"You and Nikita carry him. I'll close up behind you and lay cover fire."

Andrew frowns. "No. Wait for the others and you won't have to do a bloody thing but keep up. You'll want your team back eventually, I suspect."

"That isn't a requirement of the profile."

"You'll forgive me if I have little faith in your profile."

Michael steps close to Kamal. The skirmish outside is louder than it was a few moments ago. Mowen and Boles and Andrew's two men can't hold against a hundred, two hundred, maybe more. Soon the house will be overrun. A young man, Kamal is pale, grayish around his mouth; he looks old, and his drool is pink. Andrew grips his shoulder, trying to force the young man to focus, stay awake. Michael stoops abruptly, lifts the bloody shirt, presses, feels the rigidity. Kamal moans. Michael and Andrew look at each other for long moments over Kamal. Michael sees a variation of the same look Andrew gave him before, but this look holds reluctant certainty. Confronted directly he would most likely protest, but on some level Andrew knows exactly how every element of this night's mission must play out, including this one.

"They're closer," Nikita warns.

Michael always feels her presence and he feels it now behind him. Sometimes he feels it like heat because he desires her, like weight because she demands things from him, like comfort because she has a way of reaching him where others can't. Now he feels her like a storm. He saw her hesitate, rusted screwdriver in her hand, before she dug the loophole into the wall of the small house. It took only a little imagination to guess what she thought: _Am I defacing someone's home? Will they be sad? Are they dead?_ He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd demanded they ask the owners before knocking holes in the walls, but she has learned enough at Section One not to complain about property damage.

She won't understand this, though, and it won't help to explain how it will take more than economic sanctions to halt Pakistan's nuclear activity. Proving to her how one man's information will save countless lives won't absolve him, either, but that doesn't stop Michael. He presses his gun to Kamal's chest and pulls the trigger.

Andrew jerks as if it was he who was shot. Nikita turns from the loophole, white around the eyes, her mouth open.

"Pick up the prisoner," he orders. "We have to get to Punjab tonight. This house isn't safe anymore."

 


End file.
